


Still Before Storm

by LadySantanico



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Gen, Hades/Persephone based, Ivar Ragnarsson - Freeform, Ivar the Boneless - Freeform, Original Character(s), Vikings, but i can't stop writing about him, here i go again, i really try
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 16:49:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySantanico/pseuds/LadySantanico
Summary: She was sweet and gentle, kindness and goodness in person. She was the soft breeze that caressed his skin, that silenced his cruelest demons and calmed his deepest fears. The King of Kattegat was dauntless and uncontrollable like a wild storm, he was intense and untammed, bold and stubborn. A man who did not what he should, but only what he would. They were as different as the sun and the moon, as the still and the storm.They were never suppose to work, but somehow, they did.[ Ivar Ragnarsson x Original Female Character ]





	Still Before Storm

**c** _hapter_   **o** _ne_

  **[ p r o l o g u e** **]**

 

 _"She sprouted love like flowers_   **  
**

_Grew a garden in her mind,_

_And even on the darkest days_

_From her smile the sun still shined"_

 

 

 

  **S** he is placed on her knees in front of the filthy heathen dog, the leader of the soulless pack. He stands tall and proud, before her very eyes, the blood of innocents soaked on his black leather armor and splashed over his face and clothing. The only visible thing amidst all the crimson mess, are his indigo blue eyes, mystic, bewitching and mesmerizing. The princess lowers her gaze to the floor, too terrified to look into those eyes any longer. Her breath is panting, her entire body is shaking, her heart is beating so loud she is almost sure the man can hear it — and if not, he is more than likely to smell her fear from afar. Bridget, her parents had named her, meaning " _power_ , " _vigor_ " and " _strength_ ". A name holds great meaning, they say. It can define a future, they say. It can seal a fate, they say. The sarcasm in it can be hilarious, but it's too tragic for so. She is not powerful, vigorous, let alone strong. Perhaps she was one day, but not anymore, not while standing in front of  _him_. In fact the girl thinks herself rather weak, no more than a trembling coward like many others. And truth be told, who can blame her for it? She has been forced to stand helplessly and witness the destruction of her home, the invasion of the city, the assassination of her father by the hands of the heathens, so much blood and carnage, pain and death.

      Bridget had seen it all from one of the windows of the tower her father, — the now late High King Edmund of Ireland — locked her in, for her own safety as the man himself said. It surely didn't help though, as least not as he expected it to. Soon after the death of the old monarch on battlefield, she was betrayed by those who were sworn to protect her, by her own people. Their heathen leader sent messengers to negociate his terms with the princess. However, she refused to receive them. Bridget barred the gates of the castle, but the northmen quickly set siege around the vast construction. A few days after they were already scarce on supplies, so without thinking twice, the soldiers rebelled against their princess, surrendered the fortress. And the men delivered her to the viking camp — as some sort of peace offering, a token of goodwill — in hopes their own lifes will be spared for so. And now she is inside the pagan king's tent, face to face with him, kneeled, chained, diminished and humiliated.

      For a short moments, she thinks she should have known she would end up like that, selled off like a wild mare to be tammed by her new owner. Those people had never accepted her own mother as their queen, nor her as princess. They would rather bargain with the enemy, than die protecting a girl with viking blood running through her veins. 

      He observes young Bridget calmly, carefully anylizing her and probably wondering which painful way he would end her pathetic and miserable life.  _I'm going to die_ , the small short sentence repeats itself on her mind several fimes, ringing tirelessly on her ears. He has the strength to finish her with one single axe blow, bury it deep on her skull and end her life easily as if she was the most insignificant being. And the worst of all, her father's trusted soldiers are right outside, but none of them seems willing to lift a finger to help her. Coldly betrayed and abandoned, it's how she feels, offered as a gift to appease the wrath of Ivar Ragnarsson — a warrior king known across all the country for his fierceness and cruelty.  _Wessex, Northumbria, Mercia,_ the three greatest and most powerful kingdoms of England fell at his feet. And now, Ireland has surrendered to the beast and his great heathen army.

     After almost an eternity gazing upon his newest captive, he lifts her chin roughly with his fingers, forcing her to look into those eyes once again. His arrogant expression makes her tremble to her core.

 ❝Are you afraid?❞ — he questions her.

     His spelling of gaelic irish is slow and seems somewhat uncertain, but that doesn't make his voice sound less thunderous, his accent is heavy, rude and raw. The savage is completely unaware that she could perfectly understand the norse language, and dialogue in it as well, ever since she was a child, she learned it at her mother's breast. The princess — or former princess now — only nods in response, thinking it would be useless to lie to him, and not very reasonable of her. Bridget knows she is doomed, faded to die by the hands of the young pagan king, but she has no intention of making her death more painful than it should be.

❝If you had yielded when I gave you the chance to do so, it wouldn't have come to this.❞ — the man states, curling his lips into a mocking smirk and delightfully enjoying the humiliation he is putting her through, the girl lowers her head — ❝But instead, you choose to defy me, to refuse my offer without even hearing it first.❞

      She gathers all the courage she has left in her and looks into his blue eyes, her calm clear orbes meet his dark fierce ones, still meets storm. He is no longer smirking, his face is as motionless as a stone statue, his words are sharp blades, his voice is winter cold. There is no sign of pity, mercy or sympathy in him, she realizes. The heathen would kill her, and Bridget believes it will be better so, the girl is already dead. She has nothing else to live for, her father is gone, her title has been stripped from her, her castle has been taken. All she has now, is the air she breathes.

❝Don't be afraid foolish christian girl, I'm not going to kill you,  _yet_.❞ — his cold thumb caresses her red flushed cheeks in a gentle way, an act that makes bile travel to her throat — ❝You seem quiet and obedient enough, you might make a good slave.❞ — his eyes travel throughout her body with burning desire, glowing with lust, admiring every bit of her exposed skin and lingering on her long red curls.

      Bridget feels her entire body freeze as soon as she understood the meaning of the sentence, the vikings are ruthless beasts, but Ivar Ragnarsson is the worst of all. She has seen his men rape fearlessly and kill mercilessly, without fearing the divine justice of God. If they did that to her people, free men and women, she dares not wonder what they do to their slaves. No, not that, she will not let herself be taken by some pagan, she preferres death over that. She has lost everything, herself and her soul, but she will not loose her honor. She will die before that.

❝Slave?❞ — she manages to stammer, chocking back her apprehention — ❝Who's slave?❞

     His arrogant smile is back, but this time there's something else in it, something wicked.

❝My slave, mine, and mine alone.❞

      Opressed, submissive, captive, the girl has no choice. She belongs to him, to Ivar Ragnarsson, the man who will soon become her worst torment. Little does she know that her fate has just plunged into a dangerous sea, and now navigates in uncertain and thunderous waters that seem to lead her to his way. A fate that is written in the eyes of that demon, whom she will one day come to call the love of her life. And without another word, she watches the man move away from her in loud heavy steps. He stops at the tent's entrance.

❝And one more thing...❞ — he turns to her in a sudden movement, making the young girl shrink slightly with fright  — ❝What is your name, little slave?❞

     She speaks her name, and seals his fate:

❝ _Bridget_.❞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an Ivar fan to another <3  
> Hope you guys like it, and if you don't...  
> Well, I can still delete it and pretend I never posted it.


End file.
